


the heart's topography

by contorno



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, M/M, with a neutral ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:33:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27440500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/contorno/pseuds/contorno
Summary: After Will starts to work on the Dragon case with Hannibal, Alana's staff finds a picture of him in Hannibal's cell. No one is sure how to feel about it, least of all Will.
Relationships: Molly Graham/Will Graham, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 37
Kudos: 257





	the heart's topography

**Author's Note:**

> i came up with this idea together with a friend (@hannibalism on tumblr) and thought it would be fun to turn it into a fic. somehow this took me over a month to write despite being less than 5k lmao. hope you enjoy it!

Will looks at the picture in Alana’s hand, willingly at first before it pulls him in and he can no longer choose to turn away. Her eyes are on him, warming his skin, he knows they are, and he wonders if she sees it; sees his heart break through its cage of flesh and bone and fall to the floor with a wet thud, spraying droplets of red that stain both of their shoes. It contracts once, twice, before it stills. His eyes are burning and when he blinks, the heart is gone, but his eyes are still burning. 

There should be a hole in his chest. It’s not right that there isn’t one.

“Will?” Her tone is soft and quiet, but he knows she will be more insistent if he doesn’t respond now.

“Did you tell Jack yet?”

His eyes flicker towards her face for a moment before finding their way back to the picture. Alana’s brows are furrowed.

“Hannibal is my patient. He’s my concern, not the FBI’s.”

Will smiles briefly at her defensiveness. “I don’t mean the FBI, Alana.”

She turns the picture, presses it flat against her stomach, and it takes Will a few seconds to realize he can no longer see it. He leans back against Alana’s desk and lifts his hands to his head, rubbing his eyes with his fingertips. The pressure is almost too much, somewhere between relieving and painful, but he needs it. She waits for him to look at her again before she continues.

“I wanted to keep it between the two of us,” she says. “At least until you’ve decided what to make of it. Keep it objective.”

Will huffs a laugh. “You think I’m objective?”

She gives him a half-smile, then sets the picture on the desk before taking a seat on the couch, gesturing for Will to join her. He does.

“Maybe objective is the wrong word. Let’s say realistic. Close to the truth.”

“Right,” he says. His eyes linger on the picture, even though he can’t see it from this distance. He imagines it burn a hole through the wood of the desk and is almost sure he hears the distant crackling of fire.

“Would you rather I had kept it to myself? That I hadn’t mentioned it to you at all?”

He swallows, shakes his head. “I don’t blame you for it, Alana. You did exactly what he wanted you to do.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Will crosses his arms and lets his head fall against the backrest of the couch.

“So, how’s the wife?”

She laughs. “Clever way of deflecting, to get me to talk about Margot. But you’re not getting off the hook that easily.”

“Worth a try.” He turns to look at the wall ahead of him. “I don’t know. I don’t mind that you brought it up. Guess I just wish it didn’t exist at all.”

She sighs through her nose. “Do you want me to call Jack?”

“You know what he’s going to say.” He rubs the bridge of his nose.

“Yes.”

“And you hope he’ll be convincing. Is that it?”

Alana smiles, but it only shows pity, anger and faint amusement. He’s only ever seen her smile like this once, back on Muskrat Farm.

“Fine. Call him.” His body, previously tense, relaxes. Maybe it will be good to have Jack here. Even if just to distract him a bit.

“Thank you,” she says, and he can tell she means it.

* * *

Jack arrives about an hour later, still shivering from the midday cold. The look of disbelief etched into his face doesn’t disappear even as Alana explains the situation to him for a second time. There’s excitement and relief, too, somehow. As if he’s glad to have something lighter to focus on for once. 

It isn’t lighter to Will, who hasn’t stopped feeling nauseous ever since he first took a look at the picture. The scar on his stomach itches like it wants to tear open. He keeps touching his forehead, checking it for blood.

“A picture of Will in Hannibal’s cell,” Jack repeats. He’s quiet for a moment, contemplating. “It’s not even a good one.”

“Funny,” Will says, although he’s had the same thought.

“Well, someone has to lighten the mood. What are you two so serious for? That’s exactly what he wants. For you to overthink it.”

“You’re not wrong,” Alana says and sinks into the chair at her desk. She sets the picture down on the table, turning it so they don’t have to see it upside down. “But there’s more to it.”

Jack shrugs off his coat and folds it, hanging it over the backrest of the couch. “Yes. Not only is he manipulating us into overthinking it, he’s also getting a laugh out of it.”

“I don’t know, Jack. Something doesn’t add up.”

“You don’t think he’s manipulating us?”

Alana smiles. “Oh, no, he definitely is.”

“Then what makes you hesitate?”

“We archive every newspaper and magazine Hannibal receives. Used to check them after he was done reading them, too, but he’s behaving so it seemed like less of a priority. We looked through the ones he got in the past six months and none of them featured an article about Will, let alone included his picture.”

“So you’re saying he took it out months ago? Before he knew Will would come to see him?”

Will wants to argue, wants to say that he didn’t come to see Hannibal. He went to see him because they need his help with the Dragon. He didn’t want to see Hannibal, doesn’t want to see him ever again, but the moment to say so has already passed. If he argues now, it will just seem suspicious.

“Yes,” she says. Her voice is quiet, uncertain. “I’m not naive enough to believe it was an accident that we found it. But I don’t know what it means either.”

Jack sighs, fingers drumming softly against the desk. He turns to Will, his expression indicating that he had forgotten the man was in the room with them.

“You’ve been awfully quiet. Got any theories I won’t like?”

Will sucks air through his teeth, forcing himself to tear his eyes away from the picture. He crosses his arms, nodding.

“You know I do.”

“Alright. Let’s hear it.”

“Hannibal wanted it to be found in the exact moment that it was. That’s out of the question. He would never make a mistake like this.” Will leans sideways against the desk, trying to meet Jack’s eyes and failing. He focuses on the bridge of his nose instead. “He wants us to know he took and kept the picture for months. He’s— He’s letting us see him.”

“And by that you mean he wants you to know.”

Will nods, throat too tight now to say the word. His eyes are burning again and it must be anger. It must be.

“Why would he do that? What does he gain from you knowing he kept a picture of you?”

Jack Crawford is a man constantly on the edge of realization, even if it takes him a while to tip over and tumble. Will can see it on his face now, the question behind the question. It’s dawning on him, slowly, what has been building up for years. But even if he does find out, he might not believe it. He might choose to look the other way.

“I don’t know. Get under my skin, probably. What does Hannibal ever want?”

They look at each other for a moment and for the first time since they’ve known each other, it’s Jack who has to turn away. Alana tries to answer Will’s question but it’s too late; Jack has already decided not to believe what he is seeing. Neither does Will, although that is a different kind of denial. Alana is the only one of them who knows what’s right in front of her and believes it, too, but chooses to hope against all odds: That Will is not who she fears he is, and that Hannibal is exactly what she knows him to be.

The incident, as Jack refers to it, has to stay between them. Well, them and the staff member that discovered the picture in the first place. They will pretend it was never found and that if it was, nobody told Will about it. Will doesn’t want to let Hannibal know, doesn’t want to look at him ever again, so he agrees. 

They know he will go anyway. That even if his intentions lie elsewhere, he won’t be able to stop himself. But for now they close their eyes and pretend not to see the sky darken above them.

* * *

Hannibal is smiling. 

It isn’t the kind of smile one would notice at first. It’s a faint glint of joy flickering like candlelight, betrayed only by the slight squinting of his eyes. Perhaps the right corner of his mouth even quivers for a moment, but there is no one around to see it. A shame, really, that he should sit alone with his amusement. He hopes, sincerely, that it radiates off him like something lethal. That whoever is in the building with him is shaken by sudden nausea.

Lying back on his bed, he closes his eyes. Surely, Alana has seen the picture by now and it has hurt her terribly, beautifully. Or perhaps she is angry. She has been hardened by anger, after her fall, then softened again by love. (He will not enjoy taking that softness away from her once this is all over, but it must be done. It’s only fair, after all.) It’s easy to imagine the expression on her face, how her mouth curls in frustration. The thought is exhilarating and Hannibal finds himself giving in into yet another smile. He’s earned it.

Has she shown it to Jack? The man would be confused, more than anything else, and it will linger on his tongue for quite a while, a sour aftertaste in every waking moment. Yes, she must have shown it to Jack. 

Unless someone didn’t let her, and there is only one person who wouldn’t.

Hannibal’s chest tightens a bit at the thought of Will. Not too long ago that would have infuriated him, how the mere existence of Will haunts him, but now he simply sighs. If someone has to hold onto his heart, he’s glad the hand belongs to Will. 

Will, who is yet unwilling to return the favor.

Has he seen the picture? If he has, it will gnaw at him until he can no longer ignore it. Such a beautiful thought; that Will may realize, finally, what Hannibal has known for years, and that it leaves him aching, tender like a wound. Will has torn him open before more than once, tossed him aside to appeal to the frail remains of his own morality. Hannibal, at least, is more merciful. He will give Will what he wants, if he dares to ask for it.

Of course, if Will hasn’t seen the picture, Hannibal gave it up in vain. It wasn’t a particularly flattering one, but he will miss it dearly regardless. 

Still, that’s nothing to worry about. He’s going to see Will very soon, and the thought warms the skin of his neck. Until then, Hannibal can simply stay like this and watch Will as he lives in his memory palace—radiant and wild and deadly.

* * *

Will counts the cracks in the ceiling for the third time in a row. The motel bed is too soft, worn-out but not to the point where it will be switched out anytime soon, and he feels like the mattress is slowly swallowing him. Soon he will be enveloped by old foam, suffocating as he waits to be digested. 

Until then, he lets his eyes wander over the ceiling again. It’s a miserable way to occupy his mind, but still better than the alternative.

He begins again for a fifth round, starting with the largest crack right above his head. Only this time, he doesn’t get further than that because the crack begins to widen, opening as if cut open. Red spills out of the dark like blood and the ceiling moves as it heaves in a breath.

Will flinches. The glass of whiskey he previously balanced on his stomach slides off at the jump of the muscles in his abdomen, but he catches it in time for just a few drops of liquid to spill out. He sits up and drinks the rest, licks his fingers clean. His heart pounds in his ears. He’s sure he can feel the bed shake with the ferocity of it.

With his fingers pressed to his eyes, Will searches for a reasonable explanation as to why he is shaking. They all sound like wishful thinking, even to him, so he sighs and sets the glass down on the nightstand. He picks up his phone before he can change his mind and calls Molly.

There’s a brief moment where he thinks she might not answer, and he realizes he would be relieved. It’s a cruel realization. He’s not sure what to think of it, or of himself.

“Two days in a row? I think someone’s got a crush on me.” Molly’s voice is warm and bright. He feels it in his chest.

Will chuckles. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

“Right. I’m sure you treat all your wives this way.”

“Actually, they only get one call per week. Guess you’re special after all.”

She laughs. “I’m flattered.”

Will’s smile fades as he gnaws on his bottom lip. He knows what he wants to ask but he can’t. Not yet. His gut twists at the thought.

“So how’s Randy?”

“Good! He’s here with me right now, lying on your side of the bed. Normally, I wouldn’t let him get up this far but I was feeling generous, and I miss you.”

“So you’re replacing me with the dog?”

“Only until you’re back. But he doesn’t like to cuddle so he’s a terrible substitute.” A moment of silence passes. Will imagines Molly fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. “Not that I don’t love listening to you breathe, babe, but did you just call to check on Randy?”

His stomach drops. His throat tightens and he swallows to rid himself of the feeling. He nods, although Molly can’t see it.

“Actually, I was going to ask you something. Do you, uh—” He turns on the bed and lets his legs hang off the side before picking up the whiskey with his free hand and refilling the glass. “Do you keep a picture of me? In your wallet or something?”

Molly makes a small humming sound. “Am I a bad wife if I say no?” 

Will shakes his head before he realizes she can’t see it. “No, no, of course not.” His throat tightens, tongue suddenly dry, and he takes a sip of his whiskey. The thought of upsetting Molly, a woman who has been nothing but patient with him, nauseates him.

“Well, now I’ll have to go look for a good one.” Her smile shows in her voice. “But that’s not gonna be easy.”

He lets out a quiet chuckle but it sounds weak even to himself. 

“What made you ask?”

It only occurs to him now that he should have thought of an explanation before calling her but he couldn’t wait for that. Now he simply says the first thing that comes to mind, knowing he might regret it afterward.

“Good question. I guess nothing makes you think like trying to catch a serial killer and seeing the, uh, tracks he left behind.” He wonders what Molly will think he means by ‘tracks’. Bodies, yes, but could she imagine what has been done to them? He hopes that she can’t.

“Will,” she says and he hates the tone of her voice, doesn’t want her to go on because he knows what she’s going to ask. He knows. “Are you alright?”

He has to hold back a laugh. It’s a question he’s been asking himself lately, starting from the moment he laid eyes on Hannibal again. He feels like he is unraveling; hasn’t felt worse in a long time. And yet, somehow, he is growing and changing, and it feels familiar in a way that terrifies him. When he looks into the mirror, it isn’t always the man Molly knows, the dedicated husband and father, who looks back at him. Still, he recognizes the face. Envies it even, sometimes.

“Yeah! Yeah, sorry. I’m just exhausted” He closes his eyes as he comes up with half-truths. “I’ve been spending a lot of time with Jack and I saw that he keeps a picture of his wife in his wallet. He seems to be doing fine and it’s been a while since she passed away, but I guess I’m not over it yet.” He lets out a scoff for good measure, as though he’s annoyed with himself.

It’s not entirely false. He has been spending time with Jack and even thought about him and Bella. Everything else, of course, is fabricated, but it’s plausible enough that he doesn’t feel unbearably bad for lying to Molly.

“I’m sorry, baby. I’ll look for a picture if that makes you feel better.”

He smiles. “Not if you’re just doing it for me. Feels a bit inauthentic, don’t you think?”

“I didn’t know authenticity matters here.” She laughs. “The result is the same. A picture of you looking constipated added to my wallet.”

“Constipated, huh? Not sure I deserve that.”

“Not my fault you can’t smile for the camera.” He hears the rustling of fabric and imagines her rolling to her side. She sighs softly through her nose. “Which is a shame because you’ve got such a pretty smile.”

His mouth twitches, almost as if responding to her words. 

“I feel like this is going in a direction I’m not sure I’m in the mood for tonight.”

“No idea what you’re talking about,” she says, but he can hear the grin in her voice. “Alright, guilty as charged, but I miss you.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

The words feel empty. He’s not even sure that it’s true, but it is what Molly wants and needs to hear.

“I know, and I’m proud of you, and tomorrow I’ll look for a picture. I promise.” There’s a pause before she goes on, as if she’s waiting for him to protest. “I’m pretty tired, so I think I’ll get ready for bed now, okay? I love you.”

He nods. “Yeah.”

“Alright. Good night, Will.”

“Good night.”

Will drinks the rest of his whiskey as soon as the call ends, then puts his face in his hands, both elbows resting on his thighs. Warmth spreads in his stomach and he wills it to be because he talked to Molly. Because he loves her. He loves her.

Or, at least he wants her to be well and happy, just as he wants Wally to be well and happy, even if that can only be achieved if he is no longer in their lives. Which is what selflessness must be. Which is, in turn, what love must be. 

So why can’t he say it back? Why does his throat close up every time she admits her love to him and waits for a response? Why does the thought of returning the words feel even crueler to him than not returning them at all?

He digs his fingers into his eyes again, building pressure until it hurts, until it’s the only thing he can think of. Pain does not make him think of Molly, which means that he loves her. Pain makes him think of—

“Fuck.” When he pulls his hands away, the fingertips are wet with tears. “Fuck,” he says again, as if that solves his problems.

 _I love her_ , he thinks. 

_I love her, I love her._

_I don’t want to see him._

And it’s as true as it is false, but he has to see him anyway. Despite his own intentions, despite what he promised Jack and Alana: He has to see him.

* * *

It was easier to get to Hannibal’s cell than he had imagined: All he had to do was show his ID and the staff, knowing he’s working on the Dragon case with Hannibal Lecter, let him right in. He had even brought his files to make it as believable as possible, but they didn’t ask if they could check them. He would have to tell Alana about that later. If she will even want to talk to him, that is.

It’s early, so early that the lights are still dimmed, and Hannibal doesn’t move. In the half-dark, Will sees him lying on his back, hands folded on top of his stomach. He looks asleep, and anyone would think that means he is. But Will isn’t anyone.

“I’m sure Jack admires your work attitude, but I never took you for an overachiever.” Hannibal’s voice is a bit rougher than usual so he must have been asleep until now. Will smiles at the thought. Now they have both lost sleep over this. “Unless you’re not here to work on the case?”

Will holds onto the files with both hands to keep himself still and doesn’t respond. Seconds pass before Hannibal leans on his elbow to look at him. Will holds his breath. The quiet rustling of fabric as Hannibal shifts is the only sound in the room.

“Ah. So you saw the picture?” He swings his legs over the edge of the bed, too agile for someone who has just been woken up. “I wasn’t sure if Alana would show it to you, but I assume she was curious to see what you would do. Can’t blame her for that, now can we?”

The muscles in Will’s jaw tense. “I’m not here to talk about Alana.”

Hannibal smiles as he gets up.

“No. You’re not.” He walks towards Will and takes the moment to study him. His voice is cheerful. “What would you like to talk about?”

Hannibal clasps his hands behind his back and Will wants to lunge at him. Wants to tackle him to the ground, feel the softness of him under his own body, warm and alive. He’s not sure what he would do then, doesn’t want to find out, and so he is grateful for the barrier between them. 

“Let’s start with why you let the picture be found.”

Hannibal cocks his head to the side. “Because I wanted you to see it. I thought that was obvious.”

“That’s it?” Will crosses his arms, the folder pressed against his stomach now. Slowly, the tension leaves his body. “That’s why you did it?”

“Well, as imprisonments go, this one is quite boring, so this acted as easy entertainment. I won’t deny the enjoyment I’ve taken from imagining your distraught faces.”

Will scoffs. “That does sound more like you.”

“And simply wanting you to see the picture doesn’t?”

“Not without a motive.”

“Guilty as charged,” he says, and Will flinches at hearing the same words that Molly had said to him earlier come out of his mouth. Hannibal smiles. “Have you uncovered my motive yet? I would assume so, seeing as you drove here at six in the morning just to see me.”

Will grinds his teeth. “I’m not here to see you.”

“Aren’t you,” Hannibal asks. His voice is softer now, nudging him forward. Will almost wants to give in.

But he hadn’t come here to see Hannibal. He couldn’t have because it hurts to look at him. It’s the knife in his stomach, cutting relentlessly.

He allows himself to take a deep breath, his eyes closing for a moment. “Why did you keep a picture of me?”

“Did you tell your wife about it?”

Will frowns. “What? Just answer the question.”

“I am,” he says. “Did you tell her, Will? What did she say?”

“I didn’t.” Because it would have hurt her. Because he doesn’t want to hurt her. Because he doesn’t want her, or anyone else, to know. Because he should have been the only one to know. “It felt—” His voice cracks before he can finish the sentence. More quietly, he says, “It felt intimate.”

“So intimate that you couldn’t share it with your wife?”

Will nods and nods, throat closing up. “Yes.”

Again, the thought of lunging at Hannibal comes to mind. Pressing him against the cold floor, body against body. Maybe Will would even kiss him, just to see if it feels right. He already betrayed Molly by coming here, by keeping all of this from her. What’s one more betrayal compared to the lies he’s told her?

His stomach churns, sick with longing and disgust. His grip tightens around the folder until it bends slightly under his fingers.

Will swallows. “You still haven’t told me why you kept the picture in the first place.”

“I kept it,” Hannibal begins, his eyes not quite meeting Will’s this time, “because I wasn’t sure when I would see you again.”

Time slows then. At Will’s feet, his heart begins to beat again. It calls for the home in his chest, waiting for him to pick it up. His breath hitches in his throat and he doesn’t move.

He almost smiles. “No room for me in your memory palace?”

“You are in every room, Will. Well, not quite every room. Correcting that felt just. I got to see you even when I opened my eyes.”

Will feels like he will start to cry if he looks at Hannibal for even a second longer and so he begins to turn away.

“What will you do now that you don’t have it anymore?”

Hannibal lets out a quiet, wistful sigh. “I suppose I have to trust that I will see you here, like this, again.”

“I suppose you do.” This time, facing away from Hannibal, Will lets himself give in to the smile. “Goodbye, Doctor Lecter.”

“Goodbye, Will.”

As he walks towards the door, something warm blooms in his chest. He doesn’t attempt to put a name to it.


End file.
